The Brighter the Stars
by The Girl is Silver
Summary: Post-anime. In the aftermath of the Ritual of Atonement, Azmaria Hendrick is adrift. Stripped of her curse—and, conversely, her apostolic abilities—she has become an ordinary girl... or so she thought. This is my bent on the canon: how Azmaria copes with her losses and comes into her own.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: _Chrono Crusade_ is the creation of Daisuke Moriyama and owned by lots of entities who are not affiliated with me in any way, shape, or form (sadly). I'm just borrowing his character(s) for a romp or twenty.

A/N: I've noticed that most _Chrono/Chrno Crusade_ fanfiction centers around Rosette and Chrono. Naturally; they are our beloved protagonists, after all. However, at the end of the anime, I found myself wondering about Azmaria: how she comes to grips with her losses, and how she comes into her own. This is my bent on the canon.

"The darker the night, the brighter the stars/The deeper the grief, the closer is God!" Fydor Dostoyevsky, _Crime and Punishment_

* * *

**The Brighter the Stars**

**Prologue**

In the aftermath of the Ritual of Atonement, Azmaria Hendrick is adrift. Stripped of her curse—and, conversely, her apostolic abilities—she has become an ordinary girl. It bewilders her. What is she, if not a living dichotomy of harmer and healer? Her nature—or what it was, not anymore—shaped so much of herself, and of her understanding of the world, that she feels loose inside the edges of her body. Her soul developed with those spiritual tumors, and now, in their absence, her soul is smaller. Emaciated, she supposes; tumors divert nutrients. She will have to feed her soul, make it fit her body once more. Oh, but it's hard, this change.

The power that had shimmered in her veins when she sang an aria disappeared, leaving behind only the ghostly hum of her blood. It's strange to realize that, in spite of everything, part of her pleasure in singing came from that energy, the way it filled her with brightness and piety. Even in the times when her wings did not manifest, she felt the warmth beneath her skin, turning her bones to pearls. The act of singing, of maintaining posture and exhaling through the diaphragm and rounding her vowels, feels coldly mechanical in its absence. In the shadowed harbor of her heart, where her selfish impulses dock, she mourns its loss.

However, the end of her misfortune, of bestowing sorrow upon others by simply _being_, transcends any regrets resulting from that forfeiture. She no longer fears metaphysical hands using her as a conduit to commit destruction. This normalcy—of drinking tea in a parlor and no one taking ill, or entering a five-and-dime without someone committing a burglary—unnerves her. She is a foreigner to this existence of common happenstance.

Yet her past has not been entirely content to remain there; like trailing mud across a freshly scrubbed floor, those she encountered before the severance of her curse do not evade its grime. The Church demotes Sister Kate; Joshua is an amnesiac in a dissociative state; and Satella succumbs to injuries sustained in her final confrontation with Fiore. The jewel summoner's death weighs heavily on her small shoulders, a cloak of lead threatening to bend her spine.

Making matters worse, Rosette and Chrono, her stalwart companions and dearest friends, have been missing for months. She prays for their safe return, but the wick from which her flame of hope sways burns ever shorter. Azmaria dreams about the _tick-tick-tick_ of the mystical timepiece around Rosette's neck. She knows it can't stay wound forever, and when it stops…

_They're dead_. Is it the echoes of her misfortune, their unavoidable destiny, or a little of both? The inconsolable sobs of the Magdalene Sisters offer little insight. No comfort, no apologies. They would be worthless, anyway. She approaches them on nerveless legs, feeling disembodied, wispy. Azmaria can't process this bittersweet tableau. Knowing and seeing is so, so different; she wishes… Well, horses and beggars.

Sitting side-by-side on a porch swing in the rosy glow of dusk, Rosette and Chrono hold hands in eternal repose. With their heads bent toward one another, smiling beatifically, it seems that they have finally achieved the serenity they so desperately sought in life. _They fulfilled their contract_, she thinks, inanely. Trembling, Azmaria bends down to plant a kiss on each beloved forehead, the saint and her sinner, resulting in a deeper blow. "They're still warm," she informs Sister Claire with a wobbly smile, before her knees buckle under the shock of her loss.

Suffering drenches her face in bitter indigo, renders the world colorless. It feels like a thousand paper cuts scoring her skin, knowing she was _so close_; if only they were ten, five, _two minutes_ faster, she could have said farewell. This regret burns so luminously in her breast that she cannot contain it; her heart erupts, a veritable supernova that wracks her body from skull to toes, consumes her whole, turns her to dust. Darkness swirls behind her eyes. Everything she has longed for is detritus twisting in the void.


	2. What They Call You

**Disclaimer**: _Chrono Crusade_ is the creation of Daisuke Moriyama and owned by lots of entities who are not affiliated with me in any way, shape, or form (sadly). I'm just borrowing his character(s) for a romp or twenty.

"It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to." - W.C. Fields

**The Brighter the Stars**

**Chapter 1: What They Call You**

Azmaria hates funerals.

In another life, another culture, she could have been a professional mourner. Attending Requiem Mass, hearing the muted sobs and sniffles of those around her, makes her own tears flow faster. She doesn't want to be here, staring at the coffin surrounded by lit candles. If not for Sister Kate and Father Remington bolstering her, she would flee as far away as her legs could carry her. As it is, Azmaria operates on muscle memory: Stand. Kneel. Recite prayers. Her mind wanders elsewhere.

The week following her friends' deaths has passed in a torrent of rain, figuratively and literally. (She hates rain, too, she's decided; so dreary.) Azmaria has spent every waking moment either crying or fighting the urge. She's had lapses of calm between squalls, where her mind goes perfectly still, and she pretends to float above the earth, above earthly matters. Then she attempts to pray for Rosette and Chrono in the church, the library, her dorm, and tendrils of nimbostratus curl around her body, soaking her in reality.

How is it possible to weep this much? Her face is puffy from it, and she worries about never breathing through her nose again. Azmaria feels limp, wrung out. She takes comfort in knowing others grieve, too, but it's hard to be around people, especially children her age, who simply call her _the_ _singer_.

She wonders how a twelve-year-old should behave or think; certainly not the way she does. After… well, _after_, she considered herself ordinary. She _tries_ being ordinary. Yet she notices the way a crowd parts under her gaze, going silent until she passes by. _Poor little bunny_, they murmur in her wake; a lost helpless thing. Her smile meets averted faces. _Is it too brittle, or too coarse?_ Azmaria tries to project sweetness—Sister Kate says she's brimming with it—though she suspects it's a losing battle.

The last seventeen months have divested her of naïveté; experiencing torture and witnessing murder and supernatural devastation have a way of skewing perspective. The members of the Order know the stories, true, but she's _lived _those stories. (_Yes, and what a punch line we'd make_, Azmaria thinks cynically. _A demon, a Sister, a witch, and an apostle walk into a bar…_)

She cherishes the happy times with her erstwhile companions, wrapping every halcyon memory around her like a fleece. It keeps her warm during the day. It's during the night, when her ears ring with magic storms and mortal shrieks, that it's hard to stay the fleece around her shoulders. Blacker shades encircle her arms with icy digits; they force her hands open, tearing away her solace, leave her chilled as the wail of a banshee sounds in the distance. Many times, she has awoken bathed in sweat and tasting pungent air.

Sisters Claire and Mary recently confessed to Azmaria that she, herself, is the banshee. One night, a particular onset of terrors roused half the dormitory. She winces when thinking of their blanched faces and wringing hands. Azmaria fears that her disruptions will result in dismissal from the Magdalene Order before she can become an aspirant of its Sisterhood. The very idea leaves her nauseous.

Yet, in the midst of sorrow and uncertainty, she has gained a confidante. While her constant presence initially grated, Henrietta Dubois has made a point of staying close since Azmaria's return from San Francisco in February. The redhead, a fellow member of the children's choir, never forces conversation. Often, the girl just sits nearby, reading a book and sometimes humming hymns under her breath, and they talk if the mood strikes. Her bright eyes are kind, and laughter lurks in their depths, as if she knows some great amusement to which others aren't privy.

Azmaria recalls the day their relationship changed from friendly acquaintances to truly friends.

_It is the last Sunday of May, and the weather is mild. Mass concluded a half-hour ago and Azmaria is making her way through the cloister to the garden. She's carrying a copy of _Fairy Tales by Hans Andersen_ in her hands, eager to peruse the illustrations by Kay Nielson. Nearing the lovely tangle of plants and flowers, Azmaria notices the stone bench already has an occupant, and she's peeling the rind off of an orange._

_"Good morning, Henie," she greets._

_Henrietta scoots over to make room. "Good morning, Marzipan!"_

_She takes a seat, and places the book in her lap. "Henie, my name is Azmaria," she politely corrects her. With her name being so distinct—and she's never sure whether to thank or curse her long-deceased parents for their choice—people often have trouble pronouncing it._

_"Yeah, I know. I'm _calling _you Marzipan," Henrietta replies, a dimple in her cheek. _

_Her brows pinch together in confusion. "Why?"_

_"Because I grew up in New Orleans, and it's what I thought of when I first heard your name."_

_There is a gap in Henrietta's thought progression that Azmaria can't fill. While she's lived in the United States for five years, she's spent most of it either traveling with the Portuguese musical troupe—who spoke to each other in her native tongue and maintained the cultural customs of her homeland—or in the exclusive company of her iniquitous adopted father, Ricardo Hendrick, and his demonic cronies. The eleven months spent in Rosette and Chrono's company gave her a taste of Americana, but her palate is still very limited._

_"I don't understand what that means," she admits._

_"Oh! Well, every year starting on Epiphany, New Orleans residents throw King Cake parties," Henrietta explains. "It's a big deal and a lot of fun. The cakes have a little trinket inside them," her fruit-filled hands describe the shapes and sizes of the objects, "and if you find it, you get to be queen for a day! Anyway, my favorite kind of King Cake has a gooey almond-paste filling called marzipan. My nana made them that way." _

_A melancholic look flits across Henrietta's face. It's so brief that Azmaria almost thinks she imagines it; in that moment, she realizes that the redhead keeps her own secrets. With a grin and a headshake, Henrietta finishes her story as if nothing happened. "It's tasty stuff, although messy with the sugar crystals! I highly recommend it if you ever get down to the Big Easy during festival season. Just look out for the porcelain baby in your slice. You don't want to bite Jesus!"_

_Azmaria smiles at Henrietta's enthusiasm, even if the girl's answer raises more questions. "So… being called 'Marzipan' is a good thing?" she asks tentatively._

_"Haven't you heard what I just said?" the redhead exclaims. "It's a _great_ thing!"_

_"All right-y, then," Azmaria says shyly, accepting the new nickname. Impulsively, she blurts, "If you get to call me 'Marzipan,' then I also get to call you something other people don't." She wants to share her own nostalgia, and knows the anecdote she'll tell._

_Henrietta's eyes crinkle with delight. "Oh? Like what?"_

_ "Hattie!" she declares forthrightly. "When I toured with _Papagaio Loiro_, one of our stops was in Cape Hatteras during the summer. A wealthy family booked us to play at a wedding reception, and they paid for our lodging in a tiny house near the coast. It was pretty there. _

_"The ocean went on forever, and the Lighthouse spiraled up so high… We stayed for three days, and when we weren't performing, all six of us children built sandcastles and collected shells and swam in the water." Azmaria can still smell the salty air and feel the sun kiss her skin as the wet, gritty sand squished between her toes. (She shies away from the knowledge of their cruel fate, of blood and bones and broken caravans; Rosette told her to remember them _this_ way—happy, carefree, and joyous—and so she does.) Looking at Henrietta, she adds bashfully, "I'd call you 'Hatteras,' but that seems kind of boyish."_

_Henrietta laughs. "Well, I like 'Hattie' just fine, Marzipan," she replies with a nod, offering Azmaria a slice of her orange. "I'd love to hear more about your stay there, if that's all right. I bet the wedding was amazing."_

_"It was… different," Azmaria says, and the rest of the morning passes in pleasant reminiscences._

She wonders where Henrietta is; not sitting in the pews nearest the chancel, as far as she can see. They've barely spoken in the last seven days, due to Azmaria's evasive behavior. Scrubbing her eyes, she shifts position a little, wanting to find her friend, but Sister Kate's warm hand clasps her own. Azmaria looks up at her.

"The service is almost over," Sister Kate whispers, her expression compassionate. "Just hang on for a few more minutes."

Sure enough, the burning perfume of incense reaches her nose as the priest sprinkles holy water on Rosette's coffin and recites the absolution of the dead. Azmaria's vision blurs again. _At least the Church didn't have to decide how to dispose of Chrono's remains_. As a demon and a Sinner, they would have refused him rites of burial. They certainly wouldn't have buried him with a Sister of the Order, let alone one who bore stigmata.

No. Chrono was a creature of the abstruse, theoretically infinite; his shell, formed from the ether, did not survive long after his soul departed. Sister Anna has said that, on the drive to the local mortuary, Chrono's body disintegrated into ash. (That is all she'll say; the Sister's soft grey eyes look haunted by the memory, and Azmaria can't, in good conscience, press her any further.) A plain clay urn, placed in the burial chamber of Mary Magdalene, contains most of Chrono's ashes. _Most_; what Vatican officials don't know, will _never_ know, is that the silver-plated locket around Rosette's neck holds the rest. It is a small measure of peace, knowing her friends will stay with each other in some way.

Attendees rise from their seats. In a daze, Azmaria follows suit, clutching the timepiece around her neck like a talisman. The organist plays _In paradisum _as the pallbearers carry Rosette's coffin down the nave of the church. Everything sort of hazes together for a bit; she's not sure how she's standing at the gravesite, or why everyone's dispersing. Dimly, Azmaria realizes that it's over, but that seems wrong, even though the final blessings echo through her head. In the distance, she sees an unfamiliar man with a shovel leaning against a tree, waiting to fill the burial plot.

Azmaria dislikes the stranger, not for who he _is_ but for what he _represents_: finality. It stretches before her, how the inexorable push of time will heat and chill the landscape, turning it bright or grey as it pleases, shaped and reshaped by nature or man, and Rosette will feel none of it, tucked below in her chamber of wood and dirt. How boring it all seems. Oh, but how _unspiritual_; Rosette is not that figure in the box, and Chrono is not a pile of dust. They are elsewhere, elsewhere, _elsewhere_…

_What if they're not? _The question ghosts through her mind.

She ignores it.

The sun—_of course it's clear today_, she thinks—is radiant in the cloudless sky, bleaching the landscape and dampening her neck under the tumble of her hair. Even standing in the shade of trees, she squints against the light. At least she concedes that the site is pretty. She's glad the Church received permission to bury Rosette out here, at the coppice in the field beyond the Seventh Bell Orphanage. _This place meant something to both of them. _

She sits beside their headstone for awhile. She's already memorized the modest epitaph, but her fingers trace the curve and angle of each engraved letter anyway.

_Rosette Christopher_

_January 23, 1912 – August 9, 1928_

_A devoted believer who dazzled through the brilliant light of life_

_Chrono: Dearest friend and devoted protector_

Her throat aches with unshed tears. She wonders who fought for Chrono's inclusion.

"Sister Kate insisted on that line," Father Remington elucidates from where he stands behind her.

Azmaria hunches over a little to prevent her shoulders from flinching. She didn't realize he's been there all along. "Where is she?" she rasps, licking dry lips.

"Unfortunately, she had to leave right after the funeral. The Council waits for no one." Father Remington's voice is rife with disparagement. "So, she bade me to stay with you. It's almost four; getting late now. Time to go, Oz," he says softly, stroking her hair.

His casual utterance of _their_ moniker flips a switch in her head, and she practically vibrates as if electrocuted. Anger, clean and hot and _dry_, careens through her body. "_Don't call me that_," she snarls, baring her teeth as she bats away his hand.

Father Remington stares at her, clearly startled by this quicksilver shift in her mood. "I'm sorry?"

"I know you're sorry," she says, unable to filter the ugliness in her tone. "Sister Kate is sorry. Hattie is sorry. _Everyone is sorry_. It doesn't matter. They're still _dead_." Touching the headstone one last time, she rises stiffly, brushing the grass from her black linen skirt. The pins-and-needles sensation of blood flow returning to her legs roots her in place momentarily, and she glowers up at him.

His expression has smoothed out, though there's sharpness to his blue eyes. "Sometimes, people don't know what to say in the face of great loss," he offers neutrally. "No one means to be trite when they express condolences, Oz." Father Remington looks almost… expectant. It makes her itch.

"Don't call me that," she repeats flatly, disregarding the rest of his words and turning away. His footsteps follow hers after a beat. They walk in silence, past the orphanage and east toward the monastery. Far behind her, in the stillness of the humid summer air, she can hear a shovel shifting dirt.

As the sweet blaze of fury gutters out of Azmaria's system, the flat metallic edge of guilt beats against her temple. She knows Father Remington meant no disrespect, and that she behaved poorly. Apologies form and fade behind her teeth. Overwhelmed, all she wants to do is escape. When the stone-and-mortar complex comes into view, she bolts.

"Wait, Azmaria!" Father Remington exclaims reproachfully.

She doesn't. Azmaria feels like a rabbit hunted by a hound, and redoubles her speed, turning a corner near the refectory and wrenching open the door to the service hallway behind the kitchens. She pauses to adjust her vision to the dim interior, and then stumbles through the threshold of the storage closet, jerking the door shut. This is one of her favorite hiding places, and she knows its layout in the dark. Quietly, she moves past the shelving units, and lies down behind the battered pots and pans, drawing a large burlap sack over her body.

Outside the closet, she can hear footsteps clicking on the tiled hallway floor. They pause at the door; the knob rattles briefly. She holds her breath and lies perfectly still. Whether he would have found her or not remains unknown, for Sister Mary's pleasant voice rings out. "I thought I saw you come this way. Sister Kate needs to see you."

"Of course," Father Remington answers easily, and their voices fade down the corridor.

All the tension leaves her body, making her very, very tired. Curling onto her side, Azmaria pillows her head on her arm and sleeps. She dreams of summoning the Astral Lines—not the act itself, but of the inadvertent psychic link established between the other apostolic children and her. Though the contact was brief, she still remembers the virtues' names and homelands: chastity (Mwenye from Kenya), temperance (Nels from Sweden), diligence (Akiko from Japan), patience (Laoghaire from Scotland), and humility (Rahul from India). They appear before her now; their bodies are translucent and radiate chill. _If only they had lived_, Azmaria thinks sadly. She touches them on their heads, their shoulders, and their backs; one by one, each dissolves in a shimmering light. _Be well, my friends_.

Azmaria comes to Joshua, the apostle of hope. He smiles up at her with guileless eyes, the same shade of turquoise as his sister's. Unlike the others, who drifted through a misty void, he's sitting on a bed in a modestly-appointed-yet-comfortable room. Azmaria leans down and touches him on the cheek. He doesn't dissolve. In fact, his skin is solid and _warm_, and he is so shocked at the contact that he _screams_—

She starts awake, disoriented and trembling. Sitting up, she can see shadows from under the door.

"Azmaria has kept to herself since we found them," Sister Kate informs another person. "I know she's eating, because Sister Anna has seen her sneak food from the kitchens, but she hasn't joined us at mealtimes or in prayer for several days."

"Mm," Father Remington hums. "Everyone handles grief differently."

"I know, believe me. I've been lenient with her so far; however, she will have to resume her studies soon, not to mention doing chores and attending Mass. No one appreciates favoritism. Besides, settling back into routine will help her."

"True. So, do you have any idea where she might have gone after fleeing from me?"

Goosebumps wash over her skin. _He _does_ know_, she realizes with a pang. _Blast_. Even though he's not exposing her secret to Sister Kate, he's telling her that the storage closet is effectively off-limits.

"Ha! Good luck finding her," the unsuspecting nun tells him with a mixture of concern and exasperation. "I'm pretty sure Rosette taught the girl all of her old hideouts. Just about drove me out of my skin the first afternoon she disappeared. You'll see Azmaria when she _wants_ you to see her."

"Fair enough," Father Remington says, and the shadows move away from the door. "When will dinner be ready?" he inquires, his voice sounding farther away. She can't hear Sister Kate's reply, garbled by distance and echo.

Sighing, she rises and leaves her den of solitude—_melodramatic much, are we?_—to head for the lavatory. Azmaria lingers there for a bit, washing her hands and splashing water on her face. She regards her reflection in the mirror as she finger-combs through the tangles in her hair. Her oval face is a little too lean right now; even the puffiness doesn't quite disguise her hollowed cheeks. Azmaria's dark brown eyes would appear enormous, if not for their swollen red-rimmed lids. Her nose and mouth are equally appalling. _Stupid crying; why can't I cry pretty?_ _At least I'm not breaking out on top of all the other indignities_, she thinks; small mercies.

Deciding to read a book until everyone finishes eating in the refectory, Azmaria heads for the library, sneaking behind bushes and around columns to avoid detection. Unfortunately, she's been outplayed. Upon entering the lobby, she sees Father Remington sitting at a table with Henrietta, and they're having a quiet conversation. Though the redhead smiles and nods, her hands remain tightly clasped in her lap, a telltale sign of nerves; Henrietta speaks with gestures. Azmaria has half a mind to scurry back out, but Father Remington looks at her from the periphery of his eye. There's no running. Resigned, she ambles over, and both parties look up at her, one with relief, and the other with contemplation.

"Hey, Marzipan," Henrietta chirps, quirking a smile that's a little too bright. She scrapes back her chair and rises. "I was just about to leave, so you can have my seat. I hope to see you at dinner, okay?" Nodding to Ewan, she says, "Have a good day, sir." She breezes by Azmaria (who has an urge to grab her by the arm and keep her as a buffer) and exits the library, the door swinging to with a sharp _click_.

"Hello, Azmaria." The rich baritone of Father Remington's voice is polite, waiting.

"Hi," she replies softly, rocking on her heels. Her gaze shifts from Ewan to the floor, and her fingers worry at the timepiece around her neck. _Confess your sin for absolution_, a sing-song voice chimes in her head. With a sigh, she says, "I'm sorry I fussed at you. I hate losing my temper."

"I accept your apology, though it isn't necessary," he says gently. "I saw you were upset." Ewan gestures to the empty chair. Obediently, Azmaria takes a seat. He regards her wordlessly for a moment, and then asks, "Why don't you want me calling you Oz?"

"Not just you; I don't want _anyone_ calling me that anymore," Azmaria says fiercely. "_They_ called me Oz. Rosette and Chrono; even Satella did." She tilts her head, and asks him curiously, "I don't suppose you know why?"

Father Remington arches his brows. "I'd assumed because it's a diminutive based on the first syllable of your name, but I'm guessing that's wrong," he answers, a little dryly.

"Yes, that's wrong. Or, well, it's partly wrong. It's not the main reason," she rushes on, feeling her cheeks glow red. "For starters, my nickname is spelled O-Z, not A-Z."

Father Remington blinks. "You mean, as in the book series written by L. Frank Baum?"

"Yes," she confirms, nodding. "On our journey together, during the rare down times, Rosette would read _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz _to Chrono and me. It was one of her favorite stories as a little girl, and she said that I reminded her of Dorothy. At some point, Rosette started calling me Oz, because it's a homo… homonym?" she says, uncertainly, wrinkling her nose.

"Homo_phone_," he corrects gently. "Ah. I see."

"No, you don't," she says, frustrated. "This is stupid, and maybe even selfish, but hearing someone else use their nickname for me _hurts_. In a way, Dorothy's adventures paralleled our own, except _our_ story didn't end right." Her voice catches.

"The Wizard never rewarded us, because the Wicked Witch rusted the Tin Woodman beyond repair, scattered the Scarecrow's stuffing in her dungeon, and fed the Cowardly Lion to the Kalidahs. Now I'm the only one left, and my slippers were stolen, and there's no Toto to make it better." Wrapped up in her analogy, she starts a little when Father Remington presses a handkerchief into her hand. He says nothing, but his eyes are sympathetic. She nods thanks and dabs at her cheeks and nose.

With a damp sigh, she mumbles, "Lots of people miss them, I get that, but they were _mine_, my family, my home, and that nickname is _theirs. _So, I can't… Please, don't call me Oz anymore. Oz is gone." She pinches the bridge of her nose, desperate to stave off more bawling.

"All right, I promise," he soothes. "If you want, I can also let the others know your wishes."

"You would? Thank you, Father Remington," she breathes, her voice filled with gratitude.

"It's just Ewan now, honey," he reminds her. "It's okay to call me that. I've been defrocked, after all. I have no clerical authority."

For the first time, Azmaria truly examines his clothing. He's wearing a black suit and tie, with a white collared shirt. Civilian attire, not religious; she's not sure when the shift occurred, or why she didn't notice. She'll ask him another time. For now, Azmaria fixates on his name.

"Shouldn't I call you Mr. Remington, then?" she asks, dismayed.

"Azmaria, after what we've experienced together, I see no need for decorum between us," he tells her sincerely. "I promise you, it's not disrespectful to call me by my first name if I _want_ you to call me by my first name. Okay?"

She bites her lip. "If you're sure… "

"I am," he assures her, mouth curling a bit. "You know, lots of people love you, Azmaria. Sister Kate has taken you under her wing, and Sisters Anna, Mary, and Claire are very fond of you. So am I." Leaning forward, he implores with utmost gravity, "May I grant you another nickname?"

She stares at him. "Why?" The question is blunter than she'd intended.

Father Remington—_Ewan_—doesn't take offense. "'Azmaria' is a lovely name, but it's very formal."

"You mean _long_, don't you?" She can't quite keep the accusation out of her tone. _Rosette felt the same way_, she thinks, and quickly swallows the lump in her throat.

He shrugs a shoulder, a glint of good humor in his blue eyes. "Maybe," he admits.

Pursing her lips, she considers his offer, and then asks, "What kind of nickname?"

"Well, I think 'Mari' has a nice sound," Ewan replies.

"Not 'Maria'?"

"'Maria' would only shorten your name by a syllable," he points out wryly. "Besides, 'Mari' has fantastical origins."

She's intrigued despite herself. "It does?"

"Yes. In Basque mythology, Mari was a goddess and a _lamia—_a sort of mermaid, with human legs and duck feet instead of a tail and fins—whose travels around the country controlled the weather. The simple act of leaving her cave could shroud the mountains in snow, or unleash a thunderstorm." With no little bemusement, she discovers that Father Remington—_no, Ewan,_ she reminds herself—also tells stories using physicality, as he sweeps his hands to and fro in demonstration.

"Often these changes heralded benefits for the people, combating heat waves and restoring fertility to the land," he continues, either unaware of or ignoring her scrutiny. "Believers would pray to her for protection or guidance, as Christians pray to the Virgin Mary. She was considered a very generous deity."

Azmaria ducks her head a little, feeling flattered. "And you felt Mari would be appropriate because I was the apostle of charity," she wagers.

Perfectly deadpan, he replies, "Actually, I thought it would be appropriate because of your hair."

"Um?" she frowns, nonplussed at his answer.

"_Lamiak_ are renowned for their long hair." He tugs a lock of her waist-length platinum hair.

"Oh," she says, unable to squelch her disappointment. _Any girl could have long hair_.

Ewan covers her hand with his, and gives a gentle squeeze. "However, the rest of it fits quite well, too," he adds with a quiet, teasing smile bowing his lips.

"Oh?" She feels her cheeks flush. _He's really quite handsome_. The thought floats through her mind unbidden, and she reddens a little more. _He's old! Like _really _old! He's at least thirty, _she mentally flails. _You want to be a Sister, anyway, and Sisters don't have beaux!_ With great effort, she shoves the topic into a box in the corner of her mental attic, and locks the door.

Thankfully, Ewan remains oblivious to her internal monologue, his eyes kind. "Absolutely," he affirms. Tousling her bangs, he asks, "May I call you 'Mari,' Azmaria?"

She nods shyly. "Yes, that'd be swell. Thank you… Ewan."

The library door bursts open with great force, startling both of them. Sister Kate rushes over to their table, narrowing her eyes at Azmaria.

"I will deal with _you_ later, young lady," Sister Kate wags a stern finger at Azmaria, before turning her attention to Ewan. "Joshua's caretaker in San Francisco called. He snapped out of the fugue. Sister Adelaide said that, out of nowhere, he smiled and then began hollering like crazy. It took a while to calm him down, but he's talking now, full sentences and total comprehension."

Ewan looks flabbergasted. "That is amazing. Truly a miracle," he says softly. "Isn't that great, Mari?"

Azmaria shakes uncontrollably. _Just a dream; that was just a dream_…


End file.
